Posts Tagged ‘excessive consumption of free alcohol’

The other morning I woke up with some trepidation. I needn’t have worried because the hangover I’d been courting so hard the night before was nowhere to be seen. Evidently, that hangover had decided to go home with someone else instead.

It was a lucky escape because I had been The DPT at my husband’s work Christmas party the night before. You know, ‘The Drunkest Person There’. Thankfully, the party had been held in a dimly-lit bar with loud music, where the extent of my drunkenness was not obvious to anyone other than those who I was blethering on to.

Still, nobody wants to be The DPT. Nobody. Earlier in the week, I had the pleasure of declaring my husband to be the DPT in the car on the way home from a BBQ . You see, I, in my capacity as designated driver, had kept my body pure. And my mind – since for some reason, all the drunken BBQ people had been exchanging porn anecdotes. Of course it might have had something to do with me setting the tone for the evening by arriving, a peach and custard tart in my hand, and shouting “WHO’S UP FOR A BIT OF TART??”. But that’s a whole other story.

In my defence, I ended up being crowned the DPT that night at the Christmas party because I was drinking champagne on an empty stomach. And I was drinking champagne on an empty stomach because I kept missing the trays of food going around. And I kept missing the trays of food going around because I was being chatted up by a Kevin. Yes, a Kevin.

Eventually, however, I was able to handball the Kevin onto The Bride-To-Be (whose engagement party I had recently attended on the side of a mountain) and chatted instead to another of my husband’s colleagues, who admitted he hadn’t recognised me at first because he (and here I quote) “hadn’t remembered [me] being so hot.”

Yes, he used the words ‘so hot‘. I think it was all I could do to stop myself from punching the air. And, for the record, the reason he hadn’t realised I was “so hot” before was because I mostly visit the office, heavily accessorised by small children. It somewhat dampens the flame of my hotness, it must be said.

Anyway, fifteen minutes later, The Bride-To-Be came over with a horrified look on her face. She said one word and one word only:


It was at that moment I knew that I loved her. Like, really really loved her. It was hardly surprising because the “Izzzzzz loveshhhhh you!!” is one the trademarks of the DPT, along with “sobbing face down on the carpet” and walking that kind of walk that requires you to maintain constant body contact with the walls, furniture and complete strangers.

“Izzzz loveshhhh you!!!” I exclaimed with great gusto. Repeatedly. I also went on to tell her vaguely-alarmed looking fiance, Marmaduke, that I loved him, too. Repeatedly. Yes, I suddenly had a whole lotta love to hand out that night.

To the Bride-To-Be’s credit, the fact I was seventeen years her senior and evidently some kind of lesbotic cougar didn’t not deter her from agreeing to be my friend on facebook – another trademark move of the DPT (“Lezcchhhh be facebook friends…”).

And to my credit, I made being the DPT look pretty hot. You all know it. Now I just need you all to say it.


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It goes without saying that I’m extremely popular. I get a lot of emails. Like a lot a lot. And increasingly, more and more of them are like this:

Hi there,
I came across your site and thought it was neat! I was wondering if you
offer any advertising opportunities? Please let me know if you do, I have a
client that might like to advertise on your site.

I like to respond to such emails in the following way:

Dear Lindsay

I’m thrilled that someone finds my site ‘neat’. Most people use words
like ‘appalling’, ‘slovenly’ and ‘extremely alarming’.

I’m curious to know what kind of advertiser would want to associate
itself with a site in which an inflatable Brad Pitt wears a beard made
of pubic hair, topics such as anal grooming are discussed openly and
grown women wearing half a bird on their head attempt to
prostitute themselves at the races in order to get free drinks.

Looking forward to hearing from you,


Funnily enough, I have yet to hear back from Lindsay – or any others of her ‘ilk’.

Then the other day I got a personal email from a PR chick at Ikea Australia, making me an “offer I couldn’t refuse” regarding their recently launched loyalty scheme called “The Ikea Family”. It’s the kind of thing that makes you worry you’ll wake to find a horse’s head in your bed upholstered in ‘Snöa Flinga’ fabric.

Turns out it really was an offer I couldn’t – or rather, didn’t want to – refuse.

In the interests of full disclosure, I know this PR chick well – I like the cut of her jib. I have gone drinking with her. I let her beat me at online Scrabble. I even gave our mutual friend JS an inadvertent vibrator in her presence.

However, this is not a good enough reason for me to ‘sell out’. After all, I generally don’t play the ‘blogger game’. I don’t run giveaways (although I’m making an exception for the lovely ladies at Cocktails At Naptime in a week or so), I don’t do product reviews or even take part in blogging memes. I just keep writing away in my little ivory blogging tower – although it’s more brown than ivory because I’ve failed to clean it for a few years.

The fact was there is something about Ikea that I really like. There’s the promise of cheerful livable storage solutions in extremely small spaces. My house is currently small and cheerful. But there is nothing livable about it. And most of our storage solutions involve shoving things under the bed.

Also, the words ‘goody bag’ may (or may not) have been mentioned.

“How big is the goody bag?” was my first question when I spoke directly to my Ikea-based friend. “Can it, say, fit a flat-packed kitchen??”

Apparently not. Still, a girl can dream.

So here’s the deal: Ikea are sending a car to drive me and my three children to Ikea where they’ll give me a personalised tour of the store while my children play it up big in SMÅLAND. We will then dine together in the Ikea restaurant on meatballs, mash and (my personal fave) lingonberry sauce (I don’t know what a lingonberry is, exactly, but I like its work) before being returned home. With my goody bag.

The kids are particularly excited about ‘SMÅLAND’. And so am I. One friend said her son absolutely loved going there but that she, herself, was a bit suspicious about the fact that they made her check him in at one desk and then pick him up from another. She suspected they might “process” him in some way between the two desks.

“They probably flat-pack him and then reconstruct him with an Allen key,” I remarked. “I bet he’s returned to you better than ever, though – you know, he probably has that serene feeling you get after you’ve had a spinal readjustment at the chiropractor.”

So yes, I’m extremely excited at the prospect of my children being serene.

And to be frank, I’m extremely excited about my goody bag (did I mention there was going to be a goody bag?). I particularly look forward to watching Sven, the handsome Swedish handyman who will obviously be one of the ‘goodies’, construct my brand new kitchen in a single evening while I sit back and drink lingonberry Schnapps. (Again, a girl can dream, right?).

Anyhoo, I just thought I should warn you all  that I’ll be writing about my initiation into the “Ikea Family” one day soon. If anyone has any objections to me pimping my blog this way, please let me know and I’ll reassess the situation – after I’ve digested my meatballs, that is.  Oh, and seen how handy Sven is with that Allen key of his…

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To be honest, the evening probably started on the wrong note. A frank discussion about nether-regions waxing – before we’d even ordered our first cocktail, I should add – had me proclaiming a bad ‘bum fluff’ wax related in one story to be a ‘bum mullet’.

The three of us (birthday girl GT, our long-serving mutual friend [Name Withheld For Legal Reasons] and yours truly) were at GT’s favourite bar in Sydney – her “home away from home” – although admittedly, it was a little further away from her home than I would have liked since we’d walked there in our heels and I’d subsequently lost all radio contact with my toes.

Luckily alcohol helps in these situations and we hit the cocktails. After our first round, the owner of the bar sent GT over a complimentary cocktail for her birthday. Strangely, it was the fruity cocktail that I’d been drinking (and not the ‘dirty martini’ she’d been drinking) and so she gave it to me. I like to think this mistake happened because the manager had asked the waitress “Which cocktail is GT drinking? You know, the glamourous one in glasses…” and the waitress had assumed he was talking about me.

Yes, that must be it, especially since I’d been the one shrieking “BUM MULLET!” at the top of my voice.

Then the moment that I’d been waiting all my life happened. Three glasses of champagne arrived, unbidden, with the words “These come with the compliments of the three men in the corner.” Following bar etiquette, we all turned and raised our glasses to them.  The fact that one of them was actually GT’s friend and that they were all gay did not detract from this genuinely exciting moment.

Anyway, it was little wonder that after so much excitement and free drinks, the conversation should turn to mathematics – or rather, Venn diagrams. You see, we decided to work out if the three of us had ever all shared the same ‘conquest’ – you know, whether there was a point where our three circles (so to speak) met.

The answer was no. This was, in turns, not surprising and yet very surprising.

It was not surprising because there are well over 3 billion males on the planet. It was surprising, however, because two of us were from Perth and we all know what that means.

However, the most surprising thing of all was the point where GT and [NWFLR]’s circles overlapped.

“Who is it?” I asked.

GT and [NWFLR] exchanged quick, embarrassed looks and then looked away.

“WHO?” I demanded.

“Uh, we share [Man Least Likely],” [NWFLR] confessed.

“WHAT? [MAN LEAST LIKELY]????” I was outraged. I had known about [Man Least Likely]’s affaire d’amour with GT but not that he’d got it awnnnnn with [NWFLR]. That particular little secret had been kept from me for fifteen years. Fifteen years!

[NWFLR], for her part, was a little bit pleased with herself – about the secret keeping, that is, but perhaps not the conquest itself.

“I am an international lady of mystery!” she said. “Anyway, you and GT share someone, too.”

She was right, of course. GT had briefly dated my husband a couple of years before I met him and, in fact, had introduced him to me.

“Yes, but he’s my husband and the father of my three kids!” I argued. “I think that counts as Full Disclosure! I mean, we’re talking [Man Least Likely] here. [MAN-LEAST-FUCKING-LIKELY]!!”

And amidst all the subsequent laughter and shrieking and carry-on, I paused for reflection. Even with the sixty-four years of friendship the three of us shared between us, there were still surprises to be had. What a many-spendoured thing female friendship is…


Happy 40th Birthday, GT.

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The Mild-Mannered Lawyer and I recently found ourselves waving the ‘Suburban Mums’ flag at an inner-city warehouse-conversion party full of cool people wearing ironic hats. We had declared ourselves early in the piece by declining dinner (“I ate with the kids at 5!”) and yawning a lot (“Wow, is it as late as eight-thirty already??”).

However, we were Suburban Mums With A Difference. We had to leave the party early – and not because we had to get back to the babysitter or because one of our kids was in a gymnastics exhibition at 8am the next morning. We had to leave the party early because we had another party to go to. Yes, we were party-hopping.

Had the cool people actually noticed we were leaving to go to another party, I do believe that might have been our ‘O Captain My Captain’ moment. In a way, it was lucky that they didn’t notice because I would have felt compelled to tell them that standing on chairs was dangerous and then confess that our other party was 30km from the CBD and that we were taking along our own bedding, toothbrushes and jimmy-jams. They probably would have thrown their ironic hats at us in disgust.

To be honest, it’s always a little hard to arrive at a party in full swing, clutching your own pillow to your chest. Luckily, my dear friend Muliercula (whose 40th was our second and final stop on the party circuit) was quick to show us our room for the night and then direct us to the Make Your Own Cocktail table to help us get into the mood.

Many double-strength ‘Salty Dogs’ and glasses of french champagne later, we were probably a little too much in the mood because before I knew it, we were singing (and dancing) full-pelt to Tears For Fears.

“I LOVE TEARS FOR FEARS!” I shouted over the music to the MML.

“Yeah! Roland Whatshisfacewiththebigteeth!” the MML shouted back. And I gave her the thumbs-up and kept dancing and singing until I remembered Tears For Fears were responsible for ‘Sowing The Seeds of Love ‘, a song most notable for being a pastiche of The Beatles and being about semen.  Feeling a bit queasy all of a sudden thinking of Roland Whatshisfacewiththebigteeth’s semen, I sat down on the couch.

The MML joined me while someone changed over the records (Yes, we were listening to vinyl).

“I’m going to our room to remove my stockings,” I whispered to the MML. I was feeling a little hot.

“And what am I supposed to do with that information?” the MML asked.

“You’re supposed to wait two minutes and then follow me there,” I replied.

Now, before you start jumping to conclusions, I was concerned that, in attempting to remove my stockings under the influence, I’d forget to remove my shoes first and end up falling over and hurting myself  – or, worse still, damaging private property. I mean, what’s the point in taking your legal counsel to a party if they’re not going to help you avoid a potential lawsuit? Shuh! I guess I could have said “If I’m not back in two minutes, please come and check I haven’t fallen face-first into a double bass” but where’s the fun in that?

Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I didn’t fall face first into a double bass and the whole point of this post is that us Suburban Mums partied as hard as anyone wearing an ironic hat and the subsequent headache that I still have, four days later, I’ve worn as a badge of honour, people! Except it’s now less a badge of honour and more a pain in the arse. Not to say that my head is an arse, mind, although you could say I got it from acting like an arse. Look, I’m going to end this post right now. Sheesh.

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Champagne is best drunk when it is cold and when it is free. There’s nothing quite like a glass of icy cold fizz at someone else’s expense to make a Not Drowning Mother’s heart very glad indeed. 

A couple of nights ago, I went to the Opening Night of a big musical with my friend Uncle B to see his wife – and my dear friend – KT take to the stage. It was a momentous occasion for a number of reasons:

  1. It marked KT’s return to performing after a four year absence, which is far too long for someone with her talent;
  2. It was the culmination of three weeks’ worth of down-to-the-minute scheduling of KT’s kids’ childcare – split between a part-time nanny, numerous friends in the ‘hood, and the occasional care centre. Honestly, it would have been easier to plan J-Lo’s wedding than to plan and run that schedule;
  3. There was going to be Free Champagne at the After Party. 

But before we got to the sweet sweet fizz, we had to get through the actual play. Contrary to popular opinion, I am no great fan of the musical theatre genre, despite my joyful participation in Broadway-For-Beginners dance classes (see “All That Jazz“). Every time a character bursts into song, I have to fight back the urge to snort “As if!” very loudly, particularly when they are fleeing from the Nazis or about to die of a gunshot wound and they still find time to sing about it. Luckily for me – and for the people seated around me – the production was actually pretty good and, other than nudging Uncle B during a few “Magic of Musical Theatre” moments, I was very well behaved and indeed deserving of a free bevvy or two after the show. 

And in any case, it was just so nice to see someone I love doing what they love to do and what they excel at doing. My friend KT simply shines on stage and it makes my heart almost as glad as the promise of Free Champagne does. However, I should point out that she’s lucky that what she loves doing is something that a lot of people love to watch. One of my dear cousins is a superannuation lawyer- and a very good one at that – but I doubt he’s ever had many chances to show HIS loved ones exactly how good he is at HIS job. Perhaps he could start an amusing little blog to broadcast his wins in that stimulating field? It’s not like anyone else we know is using that medium to shout “Look at me! Look at me!”, now is it… 

ANYWAY, swiftly moving back to me and the Free Champagne part of the evening… (Did I mention there was Free Champagne?) At the After Party, Uncle B and I found ourselves standing on the peripheries, with (free) drinks in our hands, and both of us feeling a little Smaller Than Life amidst such a gregarious Theatre Crowd. I quickly came up with a Strategic Plan: whenever I leant in to Uncle B and said “Blah blah-blah blah”, that was our cue to throw our heads back and laugh with gay abandon.  Unfortunately for Uncle B, the champagne was flowing so freely (no pun intended) that soon all I was pretty much capable of saying *was* “Blah blah-blah blah”, that my laughter was less “gay abandon” and more “self-respect abandon”. And so the good times rolled…

I finally got home long after midnight (well, thirty minutes after midnight – but every minute after midnight has a double loading for people like me who Don’t Get Out Much) and was in bed just before one o’clock. Rock and Roll! Tiddles McGee then did me the service of waking me up at 4:30AM (now officially known in this household as ‘four-fucking-thirty’) and my penance well and truly began. Before too long, I found myself lying incapacitated on the couch while Tiddles, who had somehow magicked himself a recorder from thin air, stood tooting in my ear really loudly. Soon after that, ABC Kids (which I had previously led my children to believe was only broadcast on a Sunday morning) was swiftly turned on and continued to stay on for the many long hours to follow. And as I lay, riding out my first ever serious hangover in over six years, with my three little angels staring quietly at the box with wide square eyes, I thought to myself “Now this – this! – is why they invented television.” Hallelujah!

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